Static in the Wire
by BabalooBlue
Summary: In which a small number of stones kills a much greater number of birds (no animals were harmed while writing this story). ****Set after 'New Leaves'. Part of the 'Take II' universe (list in my bio). I apologise for the clunky formatting of this (and my other stories), the options here are extremely limited. Stories posted on my AO3 page look (and read) much better.**** Now COMPLETE
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

"So what are we gonna do

If we lose that fire

What are we gonna do  
If you start to doubt  
If that fire goes out..."

 _(Glen Hansard, What Are We Gonna Do)_

* * *

"He's not himself."

….

"He seems fine to me."

….

"You don't know him like I do."

….

"I'm sure he's told you that all his tests have been clear. There's no need to worry."

….

"Personality change is nothing to worry about? You're doing the wrong tests."

….

"Are you sure you're not overreacting? I haven't noticed any change in personality."

….

"You haven't seen him in three months. How would you know?"

….

"He's been through a lot. People change."

….

"No, they don't. Not like that. It's not healthy."

….

A sigh.

"Okay."

A pause.

"I'll see what I can do."

….

He put down the phone. Some battles required the deployment of allied forces if you wanted to win the war.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

His first patient of the day was an easy one.

"I'll just draw some blood, Mrs. Dawes, and then we're done for today."

James opened the drawer to get the necessary equipment.

The patient rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and held out her left arm.

"Sorry," he smiled at her, "I'll need the other arm, please."

"But my veins are really hard to find on the right. My left is so much better."

James's thoughts went back to her file which he'd only glanced at before she'd come in for her check-up. He was sure there had been a mention of breast cancer several years ago, now in remission.

"I seem to remember you had a sentinel node biopsy on your left." _Had_ it been her left? It was possible he was mistaken; she wasn't his patient. Possible but unlikely.

"Yes…," Mrs. Dawes seemed confused, "but was ten years ago."

"You'd still be at risk of lymphedema, though, so I can't take blood from your left."

"For… for how long?"

"Forever, actually."

"What does that mean? And why didn't anyone tell me before?"

It shouldn't have taken him this long to realize. His only excuse was that he was a little rusty, that he'd forgotten how patients sometimes forgot things - or chose to forget. He should know. He was no different.

He smiled, put down the blood draw kit and pulled out his chair from behind the desk to sit down across from her.

"Okay, let's see…."

He spent the following half hour explaining lymphedema to Mrs. Dawes. They didn't have the info leaflet in stock, so he pulled up some exercises on his laptop, ran through them with her and printed them.

When she left, she had given blood from her right and seemed to be over the initial shock.

* * *

Nine hours later, James closed his last patient's file with a sigh. He had taken his time with these notations. It wasn't because it was a particularly difficult case, and neither was there a whole lot to report. In fact, he could have been done in 30 seconds: _Referred to Hematology-Oncology services at Virginia Mason. File sent via usual channels_. This would've been sufficient. He would have been finished some time ago and on his way to his own appointment by now.

Instead, he had taken an hour with Joseph Flores. Part of it was spent consoling the man and part explaining what was likely to happen in the next few weeks and months. In advance of this meeting, he had also made time to catch up on current protocols for myeloma treatment and ended up reading several new articles about immunomodulation which had escaped his attention over the last year or so.

Last year, when he had been busy with other things.

He should be busy with other things _now_.

But he wasn't.

He had run extra tests on Joseph, making sure to include the results in the file. He had stopped short of adding his own recommendations but then returned to that section later and added them anyway. Whoever would be dealing with this patient next would read and probably ignore them, preferring to run their own tests. At least, that's what he would have done back in the day.

James got up from behind his desk.

He emptied the carafe of fresh water he kept in the seating area and then pushed the chairs back into their usual arrangement. They did have a cleaner coming through after hours, but he didn't like leaving unnecessary work for her.

Only recently, he had gone to the trouble of refurnishing his office, paying particular attention to the visitors' corner.

People should not have to be uncomfortable while being given bad news. Or at any other time.

He had paid for the changes out of his own pocket since he'd already been allocated a new desk and shelves when he took the job. Simmons would not spring for more furniture now. Especially since everyone else in this practice just had two simple chairs for the patients in their offices.

But he wasn't everyone else.

While he knew it was an extravagance the practice as a whole couldn't afford, he was also aware that being in comfortable and calm surroundings while you negotiated the troubled waters of a serious diagnosis eased the way a little for both the physician and the patient.

All too often, conversations with a doctor felt like a confrontation. As if they wanted to run away as quickly as possible after dropping the bombshell of the diagnosis.

He had been through this on both sides.

As a someone's doctor, you had to be aware of every variable at all times. As the patient, you didn't even know whether you were sitting on a chair or a couch – and you didn't care. You developed tunnel vision. But, and he remembered this from his own visits to Sebastian Webber's office, calm, nicely decorated surroundings helped you feel secure and in good hands, on a subconscious level. It didn't change the particulars of the diagnosis or the fear and pain it brought with it. But it helped you understand that the person you were talking to was concerned about your welfare.

It was a minor detail at the periphery of a patient's awareness, but one that could make a difference nonetheless.

Of course, the times he had to give bad news now – or what patients perceived to be bad news – were few and far between. This was a general practice, so he saw far more cases of high blood pressure, colds and eczema than cancer. Or, potential cancer, as he should say by rights.

Because he was not these patients' oncologist. He was just their primary care physician – who happened to be an oncologist. He didn't have the tools to diagnose any of them with any degree of certainty. But some cases were obvious. What was more important was that it wasn't his place to make even a tentative diagnosis.

But what was he supposed to do? What do you tell someone you're referring to a renowned cancer center? _I'm sending you there just on the off-chance that it's cancer?_ He had to tell them something _._ He couldn't bear to tell them nothing when in most cases he knew exactly what was going on and had a pretty good idea in the rest.

It wasn't his job. And it wasn't supposed to be his concern.

But it was. He couldn't help it.

"You're just bored," had House said to him when he mentioned this last week. "Bored with your life and disappointed with your job. I'm surprised you lasted this long. Any monkey can do what they've got you doing. Get a proper job!"

Was that it? Was he bored?

He had taken this job because he hadn't been able to carry the responsibilities a department head anymore. Even overseeing the selection of and dealing with utility providers at home was too much some days. But leaving it to House wasn't an option either – they'd have no power, no heat and no TV then, with House complaining loudly about the lack of all of those.

After his illness, he hadn't felt capable of dealing with cancer every single day of his life. He was glad to see the back of it in as far as that was even possible. He was still experiencing after-effects and would be for years. He hadn't felt able to deal with it in a professional manner because he had lost his objectivity. He was too involved, too stuck in his own experience and continuing health issues.

And yet. When he had to refer his first private patient to an oncologist, he couldn't help but give her a general overview of how her treatment would probably look. And when she asked him about her chances of survival, he did what he had always done – he didn't tell her. You didn't tell them, not in the first meeting at least, not until you knew them better. Not until they had done their own research at home and came back with more detailed questions. Then you could give them a tentative estimate. Not a lie, but not the bare numbers either. Because numbers do lie.

House would dispute that. But then, House wasn't an oncologist. And House disputed almost everything anyway, on principle. House never treated patients over several years, saw them grow old if he was lucky. He was presented with a problem, and he fixed it. That was the end of his involvement.

But accompanying people through years of treatments, remission, potential secondaries, further remissions and so on – that was different, and you learned that the median survival rates meant nothing in individual cases.

And yet, they all wanted to know – just as he had wanted to know. So you had to tell them something.

James sat down in one of the visitor chairs and looked at his own desk. He had placed the chairs with care and purpose. He never sat behind the desk when discussing a serious diagnosis with a patient. You didn't want any barriers between yourself and your patient. You wanted to be close so you could hold a hand or pat a shoulder if necessary.

House had taken one look around this office when they'd met for lunch a couple of weeks ago and said, "you're already looking out for potential cancer patients, Wilson. Get out of here. Go and do what you're good at."

He had denied it at the time. But of course, House was right.

Damn him.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

James sat in his own doctor's waiting room. This was the second of his three-monthly checks. Provided his results were clear, they would discuss moving to six-monthly checks.

Webber's office and waiting area were probably the only places in this building where the hospital radio didn't jabber constantly. The only sounds were the muted voice of the receptionist answering the phone and magazine pages being turned over. It could be a little oasis of calm, or it could increase your anxiety exponentially, depending on your disposition. He watched other people pretending to read, something he had given up a long time ago.

Most people sat in pairs. Mother and daughter. Husband and wife. Only he and one older lady appeared to be here alone.

He hadn't told House about this appointment. It wouldn't have made a difference anyway. He didn't need House holding his hand. House had done enough of that over the last two years.

James straightened his tie. He had come straight from work. It had been just another Tuesday - a couple of vaccinations, a few health checks, a bruised toe and then several mysterious _'I need to see the Doctor about something'_ appointments which proved to be high blood pressure, a possible kidney stone and two ' _There's nothing actually wrong with you'_. And Jessica Dawes and Joseph Flores.

Looking at the lady with a headscarf across from him, he wondered what would happen when they found new cancer cells. In his mind, it wasn't _if_ but _when_. People always worried about the side effects of cancer treatment, as if that's all there was. But there were also late effects, and plenty of them. He probably knew that better than most. He had seen more than one patient who had a previous cancer history. Sometimes it was an adult with a childhood cancer history. Or a breast cancer patient with lung cancer several years later. It wasn't unusual at all. He could look up the latest statistics, but he didn't want to - as if that would increase the likelihood even more. He'd had enough radiation on his sternum to make it a _when_.

Maybe he had another five years. Maybe even ten. What would he do? He had chickened out once before, then given in and come to his senses. Would he be able to go through this again, only worse this time around? Would House be able to? Would they even want to?

His palms were sweaty. He let go of the armrests and clasped his hands in his lap instead.

Relax.

Breathe.

A young couple went in now. James wondered who of them was the patient, and if they were going to see Webber or his partner. Whatever his name was. He could never remember. He had only seen the man once, and his memory of that meeting was more than a little hazy. His first round of chemo hadn't worked, so they had upped the dosage. He had ended up in hospital over Christmas, and Webber's partner had been the attending initially, until Webber himself came in from his holidays. James had told him he should've stayed home with his family. Webber hadn't even looked up from the bloodwork results and said, "yeah, just like you would have if one of your patients had shown up in this state."

"But I don't have family," Wilson had protested weakly.

"My point."

With the mother and daughter across from him it was easy to see who the patient was. He looked at the daughter; the knuckles of her hands clutching her purse were white. He wanted to tell her it would be okay, like he would have told one of his own patients. Things would get better again. But he knew now that was a lie. It probably wouldn't ever be okay again. You'll always worry. You'll always be scared you'll find another lump. Scared that cough will return. You'll get a pain somewhere and wonder if it's secondary. Or tertiary.

He felt nauseated. There was no air in this place.

He got up and took a paper cup from the water cooler in the corner. He drank in little sips to make it last.

There were some children's drawings on the wall. He wondered if they were Webber's children or former patients and then remembered Webber's remarks about not having a family. He took a closer look at the paintings. He'd been given similar creations by some of his own patients.

"Dr. Wilson? You can go in now."

His turn.

"Coffee? Hot chocolate? Cookies?"

James shook his head.

"There is no need to outgrow small pleasures," said Webber and leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out along the side of the desk. James thought he could see a Deep Purple logo on the mug he was cradling in his hands. He could definitely smell the chocolate from where he was sitting. He'd had no appetite this morning, so he had skipped breakfast and made do with a travel mug of coffee – which was still sitting in his car, long cold. Lunch had been an egg salad sandwich and an apple. He should be hungry by now, but he wasn't.

Webber took a bite from a cookie and sipped from his mug.

"Okay, why not. I'll have some of what you're having." James relented.

Webber grinned. "If you're sure. I like things spicy."

He had no idea what that meant in terms of chocolate, but his interest was piqued now.

They sat in silence until Webber's assistant brought another mug for James. Plain crockery for the patients.

He had never been able to figure his doctor out. To be fair, he hadn't tried all that hard – Webber was at the top of his field, driving current research, and that had been all that mattered when he'd chosen him. He needed an oncologist he could trust because he would be the patient. This role reversal had been a scary prospect in itself. Still was. Even worse if you didn't know much about your doctor. But Sebastian Webber had more than a good reputation. James had been reading his articles for some years, and all of them spoke of a highly intelligent man with a sense of humor. Little did he know his doctor would have a penchant for heavy metal music and sky-diving. But it turned out that he also had enough humor to put up with House and his interferences for two years. Which was a blessing because House had been fierce in following up on test results and scans. He'd wanted in on every single decision. It spoke for Webber that House had found very little to object to.

So when he accepted the mug of hot chocolate from Webber's assistant, he wasn't sure what to expect.

The first taste was dark, spicy and very hot. Not just in temperature.

"Holy crap. What's in this?"

Webber grinned. "80% solid dark chocolate, chili and a sprinkle of sea salt. Like it?"

He wasn't sure. It was different. He needed another sip to make up his mind.

"I'm cutting down on the coffee. This stuff keeps me going until lunch."

He could see why. He took another sip. "It's… invigorating."

"That's the idea. So, James, want to go look at your scans?"

"Why don't you just tell me?"

"Because I haven't seen them yet. I knew you'd want to see them anyway, no matter what I say. So I didn't bother. Thought we'd have a look together." Webber frowned. "Actually, I'm surprised _you_ haven't seen them yet. I would've expected you to ambush the tech right away. I'm sure Greg would have."

James put down his mug with a little more force than necessary. "Yeah, well. I'm not _Greg_. I don't ambush techs."

There was a little pause.

"No, you don't. You play by the rules." Webber pulled the scans from a file on his desk, checked the date and switched on the light box.

James stood next to him.

"As you can see, you can see…"

James interrupted: "…nothing. Great."

"You don't sound quite convinced."

"No, this is good news."

"It is."

It was. And yet, there was something else there besides relief.

Webber sat on a corner of his desk. "You know what? I usually give you the last appointment of the day so we've got more time. But today, I have to look after some department business in a few minutes. It might take a couple of hours. Do you want to meet up later for a drink? I know you don't have wife and kids waiting at home."

No, just a bored five-year-old with ADHD, James thought.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Give me the last appointment. Ask me for a drink."

Webber grabbed a bunch of files from his desk and shoved them into what went for a free space on a shelf.

"Look, James. You know how things go. Patients are patients. Peers are peers. You've had the extraordinary luck to be both. Which makes things a little complicated but also very interesting for me. I give you the last appointment of the day so we have time to discuss everything in more detail. You have questions no regular patient would even dream of asking. Like those printed on your forehead right now. _When is the second cancer going to show up? Should I get my lungs screened regularly? Monthly blood tests?_ Most patients wouldn't know that the radiation they've received on their sternum increases their risk for leukemia."

James sat down, deflated. "Is it that obvious?"

"No." Webber laughed. "I can assure you, you're doing a pretty good impression of a happy guy whose cancer is cured. You're the picture of a cancer survivor. But it's what I'd be wondering. There is no reason to assume you know less than I do."

James rubbed his face. "I'm not sure I can cope with the uncertainty. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Webber picked up their empty mugs. "Which is why I think you need a drink. I certainly do. Even more so after the meeting I'm about to have." He opened the door, called his assistant and handed her the mugs. "I'll text you the time and directions. Go home, have dinner and tell Greg you're meeting a hot woman for cocktails later. He's not to know we'll get drunk on cheap beer and a few shots."

"He might want to come," snorted James.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

As he had done for the last few weeks, James paused at the door to the apartment and listened to House playing inside. He had missed those quiet moments while House had been away and was pleased when he took up his little routine again on his return.

The only change after House's trip had been that he switched from the organ to the guitar. He wasn't sure if it was a coincidence or not. Knowing House, it probably wasn't.

He had learned to read House's mood from the music he played. Today's music was jazzy and fast. He had no idea what to make of that. The only way to find out was to open the door and go in. At which point House would stop playing.

He finally opened the door. Predictably, the music stopped. He just had time to call out "House, I'm…" before the door banged into something.

There wasn't supposed to be anything behind the door.

James stopped - and watched a broomstick fall from behind the door. It knocked over a folding chair leaning against the end of the couch. And from there on things went out of control – or so it seemed. He was sure this wasn't random at all. But it was a chain reaction too fast for him to take in. It was like the whole apartment was moving. He had trouble focusing; whenever he seemed to have caught on to something happening, something else started moving at the edge of his vision.

"What the hell?!"

Disaster unfolded from the door, across the living room and into the kitchen. It all ended in a bang which sounded a lot like the microwave being closed. And indeed, now that everything else had gone quiet, he could hear its hum.

House's head appeared over the back of the couch. "Great, dinner will be ready in exactly four minutes."

James set down his bag, hung up his coat and surveyed the damage. There were books, pencils, glasses, pots and pans from the kitchen, cutlery, plenty of cardboard folders, a pair of House's shoes, his black cane, several tennis balls and lots of other things strewn across the apartment in apparent disorder. And yet, just seconds ago it had all looked like one well-oiled machine devised to set the microwave into action.

"Is this what you've done all day?" He picked up various things from the floor. "This…", a pen, an empty folder, a notepad, "…these are all my things."

"Well, it's your dinner…"

James grabbed a stack of files from the floor and glanced at them. "And those are medical files. Someone sent them for you to look at their case."

"Yeah. They're rubbish. Boring. I found a good use for them."

"House!" He didn't even know where to start. "What if the cleaner sees them? What about confidentiality? Plus, she's… she's not here to pick up after you every day or dismantle your contraptions. She comes to _clean_ twice a week."

The microwave pinged.

"We have a cleaner?"

"Who do you think has been cleaning up after you for the last three months? Me? Are you crazy, House?"

There was no reply. Just as well.

"I'll go get the food myself then, shall I?" God, he was tired.

"Hey, I slaved over dinner for hours. This wasn't easy!"

James sighed and went to the kitchen to retrieve whatever House had put into the microwave.

"Lasagne. Fantastic." House apparently hadn't heard him or he chose to ignore the sarcastic undertone.

"Are you not eating any of this?" he called over to the living room.

"Not hungry."

Neither was he. But he knew he had to make an effort, considering his poor nutrition so far today. He sat down and took a fork full of lasagne. It tasted as it looked; like rubber. He took another bite. Nutritionally, this was probably right up there with one of the tennis balls he had just picked up from the floor.

He would need to go shopping. At least there was still fruit left in the bowl on the counter. He picked an apple after he'd chucked the lasagne into the trash and went back to the living room where House sat picking random notes on his guitar. There was a stack of files beside him on the couch.

"You could've made a bit more of an effort with dinner, seeing as you don't have a job."

"I have a job."

"Like what?" James snorted.

"Like consulting."

"Okay, so go and find something to consult. You can't sit around waiting for Chase to get stuck on a case and call you."

"…"

"What? You can? Have you figured out how to earn money from twiddling your thumbs? No. Then I suggest you find another job because I don't see why I should keep you."

House looked at the guitar in his lap, his hands just resting on the strings.

"I kept you for almost two years."

This had come completely out of left field. And yet, he should've expected it.

"I didn't ask you to."

"No, you didn't. If things had gone your way you wouldn't even be here today, and we wouldn't have this argument."

"True. So you're saying I have to be eternally grateful to you for saving my life?"

House shrugged. "You don't owe me anything."

"Just so you know, I think Webber and a few other people also had a hand in it. I don't go and do their laundry and pay their rent either."

"No, but your medical bills did."

James took several deep breaths. He was too tired for this argument.

"House, all I'm saying is things have changed. PPTH won't keep you afloat now. Chase will have the odd case for you. But it won't be enough to cover your share of everything. Things change. Go, find a job."

"You know there's that opening in your practice…"

It was true. They did have a position available.

"No. In big, fucking capital letters. N-O. This is not going to work. I will not work with you. Not like this. You'll start tearing the practice apart on your first day. I'm not having this. Living with you is enough." He looked at the mess surrounding him and silently added _punishment_. "I don't need to work with you as well."

James knew what this was about. House was anxious. In the last two decades, he'd had exactly one job. Certain people at PPTH had always implied House was unemployable anywhere else. He wasn't so sure. House was one of the smartest people he knew. He also didn't know anyone more troublesome. But that didn't mean that hospitals and universities around the country wouldn't kiss his feet if he put the word out that he was looking for work. As a rule, intelligent people were never the easiest to work with – they were too smart to dumbly follow rules and liked to mix things up. Anyone looking for a bright mind to work for them knew that.

But House didn't like change. Never had, never would. The fact that they were now on the other side of the country would be enough change to last him for several years. The fact that he also had to change dry cleaner was probably more than he could handle. Which reminded James of something.

"Have you found a new primary care physician, House?"

"…"

"No? Who's been writing your scripts?"

No reply from the couch, other than the strange squeak it made when House couldn't get comfortable.

"If you've been forging my signature, I'll kill you. I swear."

"Relax. I didn't forge anything. I've got legit scripts you signed a while ago."

"What?" James tried to remember the last time he'd written a script for House. And failed.

"You signed a few blank ones a while ago."

"A while ago? When…" Then it dawned on him. "You can't be serious. You got me to sign blank scripts while I was sick?"

No reply.

"House, you bastard."

"You act like I had a choice." House's voice rose, something it rarely did these days. "If you care to remember I was a little busy tending to a certain someone who couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted to live or die."

What he didn't mention was that he had also been dead. It was true. He had been busy holding things together – holding James's life together.

"How many?"

"…"

"How _many_ , House?"

"A dozen or so."

The fact that he didn't give him an exact number didn't bode well. It wasn't like House didn't know exactly how many he had made him sign.

" _Or so_ – how many exactly?"

"Twenty."

That was a far cry from a dozen. And yet… something wasn't right here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. James finished his apple and sat down across from House. Looking at him sitting between stacks of files, his guitar in his lap, he suddenly found it impossible to maintain his anger.

This was House. He hadn't changed. Okay, so he had scammed scripts out of him. But when had he ever _not_ done that? It wasn't like he had been able to just walk into a doctor's office and get a new prescription at the time. And he himself was the reason why.

James knew this was something which would haunt him for a while yet. It looked like they both had their lives back on track. But they hadn't, not really. He sighed.

"Okay. Twenty. You'll need to find a new doctor soon then. I can ask around for some recommendations."

House plucked a few notes. "Don't bother. I still have a couple of scripts. I'll find someone."

"Fine."

James picked up a stack of books – _his_ books – from the floor. More casualties of House's crazy construction.

He scanned the titles. _Principles and Practice of Pediatric Oncology_. _Cancer Pain Management_. One of these days he would have to clear out the bookshelf in his room; there were plenty of books he had no use for anymore.

When he put them back on the shelf it hit him.

If House got him to sign twenty blank scripts when he had been sick, and he still had some left, it meant that House had been using less. House back in Princeton wouldn't have lasted this long – over a year – with twenty scripts.

What the hell was going on?


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Wilson had been in his room for a while now. Too long for House's taste.

Maybe he was going through the books House had picked earlier that day. They weren't a random selection, and Wilson would know that if he were in better form. House hadn't even chosen them for their weight or size so they'd fit into his 'dinner project'. He had planted them today just to get Wilson thinking.

Wilson wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy in a long time. You'd think that getting the all clear would've changed that. Instead, he had taken a boring job a med student could do. Which didn't help on the happiness front.

But happiness, his or Wilson's, wasn't House's main concern.

Wilson had never been boring before.

But no matter how much Wilson had changed, he hadn't lost all of his cunning. He had finally figured out House had scammed scripts. That in itself wasn't a big deal. It would be a bigger deal if he kept thinking and figured out what else had been going on.

House shifted his weight, and the couch creaked in response.

"We need a new couch," he roared. "This one's a piece of shit."

Of course, there was no reply from Wilson's room. Instead, House heard the shower running, followed by the hair dryer. When Wilson finally emerged, he looked a little less pissed off. House decided to take that as a good sign.

"Have you run out of clean pajamas?"

Wilson had changed into a pair of jeans and a polo shirt; unusual getup for him.

"If someone around here would do laundry every now and then that wouldn't happen," he replied. "But no, I haven't."

"I hope you're not thinking of setting up a new dress code at home because that would be a step too far."

Wilson picked up more things from the floor. House had planned on cleaning up his own mess, but it was good to see that Wilson was still obsessive about order.

"Don't worry, I won't." He stopped in front of House and took a good look. "The fact that you look like a slob makes me look good anytime. And we bought that couch less than a year ago. If you want a new one, you'll have to buy it."

He didn't want a new couch. This one was fine.

"So what's with the dress up?"

"Nothing. This isn't dress up. This is dress down. I'm going out for a few drinks."

"For you, this is dress up. This is not what you wear when you want to pull."

Wilson took his runners off the shelf by the door and checked them over. "Maybe I don't want to pull."

House leaned back and observed Wilson's face. That man was always ready to pull.

"Come on, you know you want to clean those before you go out. I can see your brain cells working on whether you should or shouldn't." This was fun. "If this is what you're wearing to go out, then she's not even into smart-casual. That's unusual for you. Who's the chick?"

Wilson gave in and wiped a non-existent speck of dirt off his shoes.

"Who she is or isn't is none of your business, House. I do have a life outside this apartment."

That was debatable, but this wasn't the right time to bring it up. Confrontation wouldn't get him very far. It would have to be subtle, in small doses. Like the books.

"Well, hooray for you. Ask her if she's got a hot sister who's into tall, good-looking cripples." House reached for the remote and turned on the TV. He lowered the sound so he could still hear what Wilson was up to. For now, he seemed to be clearing away more of the items House had used for dinner. It would keep him busy for a while.

"If her sister is into salvation army chic we'll do a double date next time."

"Nice." House snorted. "I did my laundry the other day. Just didn't do yours, that's all."

He hadn't been in good enough shape to do more than one load of his own bedclothes and towels, so his clothes had to wait for next week. But Wilson wasn't to know that.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

James had spent an hour cleaning up the apartment, working around House who seemed absorbed in some show about restoring motorcycles and didn't comment any further on his cleaning efforts. When Webber's text came, he was relieved to be able to leave.

The bar was in a part of the city he hadn't been to before, but Webber's directions were straightforward. James blamed his sketchy knowledge of Seattle on the fact that he'd spent his first two years here in and out of hospital, occupied with more important things than geography.

It was time he caught up. Even House seemed to know his way around better than he did.

Thankfully, his cab driver didn't have those problems. When James got out of the car after only a short drive he realized he wasn't all that far from the hospital after all. It was as if this place had its own gravitational field; he kept coming back to it.

He remembered a couple of watering holes around PPTH being very popular mostly with residents and nurses. Their proximity to a major hospital was all they had going for them.

His already low expectations sank even further as soon as he stepped through the door. And yet he was also relieved. This certainly wasn't a place you would bring a date. He was still unsure of Webber's motives, but the dark interior and loud music dispelled some of his worries.

Webber was waiting for him at the bar, a bottle of beer already in hand. He had changed from his office attire into a pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt which could have come straight out of House's wardrobe.

"Do you ever do laid back?" he asked when he spotted James.

"This _is_ laid back."

"That shirt is ironed." Webber grinned and raised his bottle. "But I appreciate your attempt at fitting in."

James watched him order another couple of beers.

"So, how did the meeting go?" he asked when their drinks arrived.

Webber lifted his bottle and took a swig before replying. "About as I'd expected." He paused as if he wasn't sure how much he should disclose. "I've already had two of these before you arrived if that helps fill in the blanks."

It did. James understood that Webber was in an awkward position.

"It's my _extraordinary luck_ again that complicates this, right?" he asked finally.

Webber grinned. "Something like that, yes."

"If it makes you feel better, it doesn't exactly feel like luck to me."

"Good point," Webber conceded.

"Ah, what the hell. It'll be official on Monday anyway," he added after a moment's silence. "Cassel, deputy department head and my research partner for the last eight years, has resigned. He's _moving on_ , as he puts it. I just met with him."

Eight years was a long time. People always came and went in hospitals, even more so in research. It was rare to work with someone for that long.

"So he's leaving you in the lurch, and you can't imagine working with anyone else?"

"No, that's not it. I can imagine working with someone else. The question is just, will that person want to work with me?" Webber laughed. "Plus, it's all those hoops you need to jump through to replace him. Post the position, sift through the applications, conduct interviews… I swear, James, bureaucracy is killing patients."

"Because we waste so much time on unnecessary paperwork? You're probably right," he remembered all the red tape he used to deal with. Those days were gone. "House has always been good at avoiding that side of running a department. Maybe you should talk to him and get a few tips."

"I've heard rumors. But I have no aspirations to follow in his footsteps. According to most of the board members at the hospital, I'm enough of a maverick already." Webber shook his head. His hair, probably slightly too long to garner the board's approval, fell into his face. James could just about imagine what people thought of Webber. But it had been this unconventional side which had piqued his own interest in the first place.

"We do what we have to, by the means available to us," he mused.

"Very philosophical. How much have _you_ had to drink before you came here?"

"Nothing. I cleaned the apartment. That was after I threw dinner in the trash."

"You haven't eaten yet?" Webber looked surprised.

James shrugged. "No big deal."

Webber turned towards him and looked him up and down. He might have had a few drinks, but his gaze was sharp, and his full attention was on James now.

"Should we be doing a weigh-in at your check-ups? You always say you're eating okay. But now, out of a suit and tie, you don't look okay." When James started to protest, he added, "oh, you're maintaining the illusion of being a coherent, whole person, don't worry. I'm sure you fool the average Joe."

But Webber wasn't average. That's why he had chosen him.

"No, we don't need a weigh-in. I haven't gained any weight in the last three months," he finally admitted. "Food still tastes different, and I seem to have gone off some of my favorites."

But instead of telling him how metabolism and appetite could change during and after cancer treatment – none of which was news to him – Webber simply wanted to know if he was hungry now.

"They do an almost decent pizza here. I haven't eaten since your appointment either. Those cookies were the last thing I had."

They ended up sharing a pepperoni pizza which they washed down with more beer. It's hard to talk with your mouth full in a noisy place unless you're House, so conversation only resumed after they had finished off the pie.

"You're scared of dying." It wasn't framed as a question. Webber simply stated a fact, almost in passing, between two sips of beer. It was surprising that he wasn't only coherent but still extremely perceptive.

"Isn't everyone?" replied James flippantly.

"Sure. Mostly irrationally so. Like that woman at the end of the bar." Following Webber's eyes, he saw a tall redhead with a great cleavage. "That's at least one facelift I can see – and it's dark in here. Those babies aren't real either. Can't face the fact she's mortal." He then looked at James. "But your fear is more concrete, it's well-founded."

"Yeah…" The pizza sat heavy in his stomach now.

"So stop living like you're already dead."

"What does that even mean?" He couldn't help but sound dismissive.

"It means you're allowed to live a little. Do something that makes you feel alive. Do you feel alive when you go to work in the morning?"

"I used to."

Webber didn't reply anything to this. He just waited for him to continue.

James had thought taking on a less demanding job would help him get back to normal. But now he wasn't so sure anymore what normal even was.

"Maybe there is no way back to normal." Seeing Webber's raised eyebrows, he elaborated. "House persuaded me to go into treatment by making me realize life could be fun and was worth living. You know I refused treatment initially?"

When Webber nodded, James continued.

"He threw away his life to save mine. It sounds over the top, but that's what it boils down to. And I came out the other side. I survived. And what am I doing with this life? With this gift that's so precious? That's so much fun? I should be doing something interesting. Instead, I have a boring desk job!" He banged his empty bottle on the table. "A trained monkey could do what I do, to quote House."

"Whoa. No disrespect to your colleagues, right? So, if this is how you feel, why did you take that job? It's not like you didn't have a choice. You've got a great reputation; you could've had your pick from a long list of oncology departments."

James shrugged. It was complicated, so he decided to go with the simple version. "I was out of the game for two years. Haven't published anything. Unfamiliar with the latest research, new protocols, everything basically. Who would choose a sick man in his forties over a fit thirty-something who's fresh off the latest trial?"

It was noisy in this place, so he couldn't be entirely sure, but it sounded as if Webber was laughing.

"That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard. You could catch up with that in a matter of weeks. You chickened out. You…" He turned and looked him straight in the eyes. "… don't trust yourself. You think you've lost it."

"No… it's not that. Not… just that."

This was a weird situation. Here he was getting drunk and talking shop with his oncologist. All manner of things were getting mixed up here, not least of all his thoughts. Maybe he should take it slow with the alcohol.

"What when it comes back?" It was out before he had even realized what he was about to say.

"So it's _when_ , not _if_ , in your opinion." Webber sounded amused.

"Fuck this, Webber. This isn't funny. Of course, it's when. Give me the numbers, you know them better than I do right now. And I'm not talking national mortality rates or some average survival rates. Give me _my_ number!"

Webber slowly shook his head and turned the bottle in his hands. Another one empty.

"I know what you want. But you and I both know you can't have it." He had gone very quiet; James struggled to hear him now. "It doesn't exist. It's a lottery. Always was, and always will be."

"See," James finally said. He had made his point. "That's why."

"You're not making much sense now. Because you don't know how long you'll live you can't take a job you're good at? That's nonsense. You're just scared. You're hiding behind your safe and boring job. Because you're scared to live."

James felt his anger grow. There was some truth in what Webber was saying, of course.

"You sound like House, always goading, always teasing. It's not your life, though, is it? You're not the one who has to live with this… this uncertainty."

Now it was Webber's turn to be annoyed. "Oh, _bullshit_ , James! Nobody's life is certain. Agreed, your chances are a little worse than mine – maybe. Who knows what time bomb I carry in me? You know what you need?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You need to feel alive. Really feel it. You, my friend, need to go flying with me."

"What, now? You're crazy, Webber. And drunk."

Webber did a little pirouette in front of him. He might have been drunk, but he was still remarkably steady on his feet.

"Maybe drunk, but I'm not crazy. Of course not _now_ , you loon. I like a little thrill, but I'm not suicidal. You can't jump in this state. How about next weekend? I'll take you." He stopped twirling and pushed his hair back. "And it's Sebastian. Seb, if you really like me."

James shook his head. "You're nuts. What's that going to achieve? I think it's time to go home. I'll see if they'll call us a cab."

Webber insisted on walking. "I live only four blocks from here, why do you think I picked this place? Not for its ambience."

The evening ended with James instructing the cabbie to drop Webber off at his place before driving him home. Better safe than sorry.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

James rubbed his face. He checked the time again.

How could it possibly be no later than 10 o'clock? He had already had two coffees – that was on top of the one he had grabbed at the corner store on the way from the bus to the office. The caffeine had barely made a dent in his tiredness. But it did give him heartburn, so more of the same was out of the question.

Instead, he took some Pepcid which he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk, together with the aspirin for headaches.

He had already taken care of the headache the moment he woke up that morning. It had been later than normal, so he must have hit snooze the first two times the alarm went off. He just couldn't remember doing it. This never happened. He hadn't had a headache like this for a long time either. There had been chemo headache. Now there was the occasional tension headache from working at a desk most of the day. There was the dehydration headache he got when he was too busy to stop for breaks.

And then there were hangovers. He hadn't had any of those in over two years. The last one he recalled had been in another life, somewhere in Montana, after a booze-filled night with House and two dark-haired and long-legged sisters who thought motorcycles – and by extension, the guys riding them – were cool.

James wished he'd had as much fun last night as they'd had in Montana. Or wherever it had been.

For once, House was innocent. He had done this to himself.

He wondered if Sebastian Webber felt as horrible as he did this morning.

Probably not. Webber looked like he could handle his drink. He was also younger and had not recently finished cancer treatment. He had still been coherent when James left him to make his way from the cab to his front door. At least he hoped that had been his front door. After all, he only had Webber's slightly slurred word for it. Maybe he had misheard the address.

He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and pulled up yesterday's text sending him directions to that strange, dark watering hole they had spent the night in.

 _'_ _Did you find your door ok last night?'_ he finally typed. He hesitated for a moment and then saved the number together with Webber's office number.

It took a few minutes for a reply to come.

 _'_ _Found the door but not my bed. Woke on the couch this morning. Back as bad as my head. We need to do this again.'_

It was small consolation, but at least he wasn't the only one suffering.

When he had come home last night he had fully expected to find House waiting with an interrogation about his 'date'. Instead, the living room had been dark and empty. The last remnants of House's mad dinner construction had been cleared away, and for once there were no dirty dishes to be found. At least not outside the kitchen. House had a tendency to pile everything up on the kitchen counter, so James didn't venture that far.

He couldn't even hear music coming from House's room which was unusual. But it probably just meant that House was either in the bath or was using his headphones. It would also explain why he hadn't pounced on him yet – he simply hadn't heard him come home.

This was fine with James. He knew he'd had too much to drink, and didn't feel like sparring with House in this state. And sparring it would be. House was bored, and dissecting James's life was still his favorite antidote to boredom.

Just at the edge of sleep, however, he had heard the familiar sound of House's labored steps next door.

Hopefully, House had been pacing because he had finally found a case to get his teeth into. It was high time – unemployed and bored House was almost impossible to live with. He sincerely hoped to find House sitting amongst piles of notes, scans and test results when he got home later today.

But to get there he would actually have to deal with today's appointments first. He didn't dare go through his list for fear of seeing how far he still had to go before he could go home.

James sighed and left his desk to call his next patient.

"Mr. Adams, please?"

He watched an elderly man struggle up from his seat in the waiting area when his attention was drawn to a familiar looking pair of shoes to his left.

"Um, I'm sorry, Mr. Adams, I'll only be a few minutes." He hated having to delay his patient, but he had to take care of this first.

The fact that the shoes were at the end of a pair of very long legs and there was a cane balanced on top of one foot was a dead giveaway. Not even the newspaper he was hiding behind helped.

James pulled the paper down.

"House!"

"Hm?" House didn't look in the least surprised. Smug was the word that came to mind.

"What are you doing here?"

"Me? I've got an interview with a Dr. Simmons in…," he made a show of checking his watch, "well, ten minutes ago, actually. Being late for an interview doesn't bode very well, wouldn't you say?"

James turned on his heels and went straight back to his desk. He wasn't going to have an argument out there in the waiting room. He knew House would follow him. That's why he was here.

"What's this supposed to be? I need to work." He made no attempt to disguise his impatience.

His visitor folded himself into one of the comfortable chairs in the corner. He put his cane on the small table and then looked over at James.

"This is work. _My_ work. I'm applying for the position Simmons advertised."

"Did you hang around in the waiting room for half an hour just to be an ass?"

"I told you, I'm waiting for Simmons."

James rubbed his face. "House, seriously, _don't_."

"What? Only last night you were pestering me to get a job. Now I am getting a job, and you're complaining. Can't do anything right."

"You know exactly what I meant last night. Not any job. A job for you. Not _this_ job."

"Oh, so we're picky now, are we?"

He would not be able to get to Mr. Adams in the next few minutes, that much was clear.

"I'm not picky. But you should be."

House muttered under his breath, just loud enough so James could hear him. "No, you're clearly not."

He chose to ignore the quip. "You wouldn't last a week here. I could give you a whole list of reasons why, but you know all of them. And I have patients to see. So, cut to the chase – why are you here?"

House got up and started wandering around the room, straightening a picture here and picking up a journal there. James was beginning to get impatient when he finally responded.

"I was going to ask you the same question."

"Huh? You've lost me. Get to the point, House."

"Yeah, I've clearly lost you." House stepped up to the other side of the desk and leaned over as far as possible, trying to get into James's face. He resisted the temptation to move his chair back, but he couldn't show any weakness now. He decided to sit this out, literally.

House stared at him for a long moment. When he turned away, he took another look around the office and then went to leave.

Just before the door, he stopped.

"If this place is a waste of my time, as you're implying, why are _you_ here?"

Without waiting for an answer – not that James could have given him one - he then quietly closed the door behind himself.

James knew he'd been lucky. Aside from showing up here in the first place, this was actually quite a subtle performance from House. No prank, no big show in the waiting room to embarrass him in front of patients and staff. All this, of course, made him wonder what else House had done – and when would he find out?

Unless, of course, House had really applied for the position and was on his way to talk to Simmons now. James resisted the urge to jump up and run after House to stop him from ruining what little reputation he'd managed to establish for himself here. He knew he was being paranoid. He wasn't happy, and House knew. House had been telling him from the moment he took this job that he'd regret it. So now he was stepping up his game to make him see sense.

But he already knew. House was preaching to the choir. The problem wasn't that he couldn't see what was wrong. The problem was that he didn't know how to fix it. He didn't have any choice.

After his surgery and treatments, he had spent a lot of time at home figuring out what to do. House jokingly called it 'Wilson's blue period', but putting a funny spin on it didn't change the fact that he had been depressed. And the end of his depression had come when he admitted to himself that he didn't feel able to shoulder responsibilities as he had in the past. He was physically and mentally unable to run a department. And there was no way he could work with cancer patients again.

All this was what he hadn't told Webber last night. The technicalities like current research, protocols, new drugs – none of those were a valid reason for not returning to the field he had chosen such a long time ago. It was his own inability to cope that had made him look for a different kind of work.

He could sit staring at the wall as long as he liked, he wouldn't find the solution there. With a deep sigh, he pushed back his chair and went to call in Mr. Adams.

He was only twenty minutes behind schedule.

* * *

House left the practice as quickly as he could after closing the door to Wilson's office. He had never, not for one second, considered taking that job. Which was exactly what Wilson should've done. How he could stand being stuck in this place, day after day, was beyond House.

But Wilson was something House was not. Wilson was scared. He would never admit it, and House wouldn't force him to. Nothing good would come from it. He needed to make Wilson see that he was wasting his time in this job.

House knew that this was Wilson's hidey-hole, his safe place. He was working, he was practicing medicine – of sorts – but he didn't have to get involved. He could go through the motions.

It was all about appearances. He knew about appearances.

This was Wilson donning another mask, playing a fully functioning human being when in reality he was scared and lonely and who knew what underneath that mask. House knew perfectly well Wilson was a master of façade and this was just another one.

But he also knew from experience that the worst you could do was pull off that mask with force. Patience and cunning were the way to go.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

It was Friday, just after lunch and not nearly late enough to go home.

The day before, he had received a text from Webber.

 _'_ _Tomorrow, 6 pm. Make sure you get off early. Don't be late.'_

The coordinates included in the message revealed a location about an hour south of the city.

So much for hoping Webber would forget it.

James had gone to work as usual that day. He hadn't mentioned the text to House, not so much because House would have a field day with this, but because he still wasn't sure he would actually go.

Webber was crazy.

Webber was also smart, young, energetic and, apparently, happy.

He could just ignore the text and go home like any regular Friday afternoon.

He could stop on the way and get the grocery shopping done for the week because House sure as hell wouldn't have done it. He could take a bottle of wine or two home where dinner would not be ready and House would not have done the laundry either and crap would be strewn all over the apartment.

Or he could follow Webber's advice, take the bait and live a little.

He could change into the jeans and t-shirt he'd packed in the morning, just in case, and leave the office at four so he'd make it to the center well before 6 pm. His caseload today would easily make that possible.

He could let himself get scared out of his mind instead of going home to a normal weekend.

* * *

"You scared?" Webber asked as he held the door.

James wished he could come up with a reply that would wipe the grin off his face, but he drew a blank.

"Yeah, a bit," he admitted.

"Good. You should be. Everyone is the first time. Why do it if you're not?"

That was definitely true in his case. He was scared. And he wanted to be because he had decided that being scared was slightly preferable to feeling nothing.

He had finished with his last patient, an elderly lady with high blood pressure, high cholesterol and nightly panic attacks, completed his notations for the day, and then he had changed out of his suit.

Throughout the drive to the skydiving center, he had tried not to think about how crazy what he was about to do was. He had tried not to think about being a middle-aged guy rebounding after cancer; a veritable cliché and a joke.

He hadn't been successful.

When he arrived, the sun was still out, and the parking lot was half empty, and he hoped this meant he would have a smaller audience later when things got serious.

Webber had pulled up shortly after – they were both early.

Inside, they were greeted by a lanky teenager.

"You doing your own thing tonight, Seb?"

"Yeah." Webber nodded in James's direction. "He's a first-timer, though."

James was handed a clipboard with a form. "You need to fill out a waiver before we can let you go up with this madman."

"What do you mean? Who will I be jumping with?" He looked from the youth to Webber who leaned grinning against the counter. "You're kidding, right? Don't you need to be qualified to do this… this kinda thing, a tandem jump?"

Webber just nodded. "Sure. I even brought my certification, in case you need to see it." He patted the back pocket of his jeans. "I thought you might want to, you know, before you put your life into my hands. Again."

James noted that the grin had completely disappeared from Webber's face. He wasn't joking. He would be putting his life into Webber's hands in a manner of speaking. And it would not be the first time.

"I don't need to see it," he finally said and began to fill out the form. It was all very basic until he got to point 9.

 _Any recent illnesses e.g. heart problems, cancer, history of seizures?_

"Does this never end? I just want to be done with fucking cancer!" He felt like tossing both clipboard and pen into the glass door behind which the teen had disappeared.

"None of us is ever done fucking cancer, my friend." Webber grabbed pen and form from him and signed. "I'm your oncologist, I declare you fit to jump. Actually, I say you _need_ to jump. You need an adrenaline injection."

Against his better judgment, James followed Webber into a small room where they went through a dry run of what was going to happen once they went up in the air. Webber stopped being flippant and took his time to explain every detail.

"I want you to be scared - the good kind of scared. This is like going on the biggest rollercoaster ride of your life. When you come down you'll want to go straight back up again."

James tucked his shirt into his jeans as Webber had suggested. "I hate rollercoasters."

"Well, you're going to love this." Seeing the doubt on James's face, he added, "I promise."

He never saw the pilot who took them up. Webber exchanged a few words with him, but James couldn't hear what was said. The plane was slightly bigger than a tin can, and take-off alone made his stomach lurch ominously.

"Hope you didn't eat anything in the last two hours," Webber said. "We can go for dinner and drinks afterwards."

Food was the last thing on his mind.

It took about ten minutes until James felt the plane level out.

"Are you ready?" asked Webber and began to belt James to his front.

James didn't think he'd ever be ready for this. But it was too late now, so he just nodded once.

Webber returned the nod and held up two fingers which he took to mean they had two more minutes.

The door was open now, so he had to shout to make himself heard. "Aren't diapers included as standard in this package?"

"Nobody's pissed themselves yet, at least not jumping with me." Webber laughed and turned to take a look out the window. "Okay, step forward now until your toes are just at the edge. Hold on to the frame. When I say go, you let go. I'll get us out."

So this was it. James inched his way forward until his feet were almost at the edge. Webber was strapped to his back – or he to his front, he wasn't sure. As weird as it had felt when they'd belted up, at this point, he was glad for the proximity because Webber would stop him from dying in the next five minutes.

However, even Webber would not prevent heart attack, not up here, he thought, as he felt his heart beating furiously in his throat. He held on tight to the frame and took a few slow, deep breaths. The wind tore at the suit he had been offered on the ground, and he was glad for it now since it was colder up here.

And then he felt rather than heard Webber say _GO_. For a second, the wish to turn back was so strong that he thought he couldn't take another step. But that would be chickening out. And he'd be damned if Webber had to push him out of this tin can. So he gave a quick nod, unsure whether Webber could even see it - and let go of the door frame. He felt a movement behind him, and then his right foot took one more small step. His left already found nothing but air.

Later, he would wish that there was some way to record what had happened after this. There was video footage but it didn't capture at all what he had felt in the following minutes.

When he realized they were in free fall his screams turned into equal parts fear and joy. Sounds, visuals, sensations on his skin – it was all one. His stomach rose to meet his diaphragm, and he thought his protective suit would be torn off.

And then suddenly, there was a slight lurch and they were pulled up a bit. The noise died down a fraction. Webber had pulled the cord and opened the chute.

When Wilson glanced up and saw the bright red fabric above them he felt relief. They were slowly descending now instead of falling. His heartbeat also calmed down a little; he stopped screaming and started laughing instead.

Only now did he understand the significance of Webber choosing this time of day. By picking a slot in the early evening, he hadn't only offered Wilson a skydive experience, he had also given him the sunset. Up here, floating towards the ground, the colors were amazing. He looked around and wished they could get a little closer to the coast.

"This is fantastic!" he shouted, even though he knew nobody could hear him.

In response, Webber just patted his arm and held the camera out for James to grin into. And grin he did. He couldn't help himself.

All too soon Webber gave the sign to prepare for landing, and he had to stop soaking up the incredible view.

The ground got closer, and suddenly things happened very quickly.

They had gone through the landing procedure before takeoff, but James was still a little shaken when they finally arrived back on solid ground. More than shaken, though, he was speechless.

Luckily, Webber didn't bother him for commentary. He just helped him out of the harness, packed up the chute with practiced moves, and then they both got into the pickup driven by the teenager from the center.

During the short drive, the boy rattled on about wind speed and drop zones with Webber chiming in every now and then. James avoided both their looks and zoned out. As elated and almost ecstatic as he had felt up in the air, as downcast he was now.

The teenager had long left the car when he still hadn't figured out how to deal with what had just happened. Eventually, he turned to Webber.

"I know you're waiting for me to say something but… I can't. This was amazing. I don't know how to handle it. And you were right; I could do this again."

Webber nodded. "You're not the first to be overwhelmed. All I wanted was for you to see what else is out there. I'm not saying you have to jump every weekend. Or go diving or windsurfing." He looked over and winked. "I'm just saying that you _can_ if you want."

James shook his head. "But I…"

"No buts. You can if you want to. Nothing is stopping you. Only what's going on in your thick head."

And with those pearls of wisdom, Webber left the car and carried the equipment back into the center.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Wilson came home late that evening. In the past, way back when, that hadn't been unusual on a Friday. House knew Wilson liked to make sure all his patients were taken care of over the weekend, that the nursing staff on duty had all the updates they needed, and sometimes he even spent some extra time with some unfortunate kid who didn't get to go home over the weekend as they'd been promised.

But that was when James Wilson, _boy wonder oncologist_ and _carer_ _extraordinaire_ , still had a proper job. Things had changed since then, and he had been home early every Friday as his new practice closed at 5 pm.

So when Wilson finally arrived well after 10, House knew he had been up to something.

He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, while the suit he'd left in that morning appeared to be in a bag over his arm. This was unusual attire for a workday. He was also juggling his briefcase and a paper bag.

"Judging by your clothes and the shit-eating grin on your face, you reached first base with the mysterious chick tonight." House made a show of checking his watch. "And yet, you're home early. Did she kick you out?"

Ignoring the obvious taunts, Wilson hooked his suit bag over the back of a chair and put his briefcase away. "I went out for dinner, so I'm not cooking tonight."

House sat up to get a better view over the back of the couch.

"Hope you also went shopping and just forgot the groceries in the car because there can't be enough for the week in that bag. I had to order in, by the way."

"God forbid, you should have to do the shopping one of these days."

"Cripple here, remember?"

"It might have escaped your notice, but most stores deliver nowadays. Through this great invention called the internet, you can place your order and, hey presto, they bring your desired groceries straight to your door. You have to pay when you order, though, which is where this falls down, I guess."

Wilson wasn't all that wrong. House was broke. He needed a job, preferably a big, tricky, well-paying one that would sort him out for a few months. He would be occupied for a while and refill his account at the same time. As an added bonus, it would get Wilson off his back. The notes he had been sent by registered mail earlier could turn into exactly such a _three birds, one stone_ job if he played his cards right.

But that would have to wait until he had messed with Wilson a little more. That patient was going nowhere fast.

"So, who is she? Someone from work? I don't remember seeing anyone even remotely your type the other day, but you don't go anywhere else. Let me guess… mmm… the receptionist? Thought she'd be a little outside your preferred age bracket, but you never know what goes on under the hood until you've checked, right?"

"I didn't have a date with Georgia. She's happily married, as far as I can tell."

"As if that's ever stopped you," House snorted.

"She has two grandchildren, for heaven's sake!"

"So? If whats-her-name had got pregnant while you were married, you could be a grandfather by now." Wilson looked a little pale. "Just sayin'. It's simple math, that's all."

"Sam. Her name is Sam. As you well know."

Wilson disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a moment later, carrying the same paper bag and a couple of forks. He dumped everything on the coffee table, right on top of the two folders that had been in today's mail.

"Hey, careful, I need those!"

"If this is work, House, then go and put them on your desk. You were the one who insisted on a desk for your room – so go and use it instead of taking over the communal space." Wilson plopped down in the easy chair and stretched his legs with a sigh. He looked content.

 _Communal space_. Wilson was getting a little territorial. House filed this information away for possible future use.

"What's this?" The bag had been strategically placed just out of his reach.

"Like I said, I went for dinner. And I brought you back some food," Wilson gestured at the bag. "Go on, I know you can eat any time of day. Or night."

House sat up and reached for the bag.

"You brought me a doggie bag?"

"House, it's free food. Damn good food, by the way."

House raised his eyebrows. "I repeat: You bring me food? Voluntarily? I revise my earlier statement. You must've gotten way past first base. And yet – why home so early, Romeo?"

"For the last time, I have not been on a date." The words were indignant but his demeanor wasn't. If anything, Wilson looked relaxed and happy.

"You certainly look smug enough for it, though," House muttered while digging through the contents of the bag.

There were several small containers with spicy vegetable dishes and a large one with a full portion of sliced, marinated beef. House turned the paper bag over, but there was no logo on either side.

"Bulgogi? You went to a Korean Barbecue place? Where? If this was your chick's suggestion you need to introduce us – I like her style."

He had only had a slice of cold pizza earlier - contrary to what he told Wilson, he hadn't ordered in. He hadn't been all that hungry. The smell of the marinated meat and spicy vegetables made his mouth water now, though. He was tempted to go and reheat the meat, but that seemed like a lot of effort for little return. It would taste fine cold.

"By the way, if you happen to pass by the fridge, I think there is some beer left."

"You don't think – you always know exactly how much beer we have left." Wilson rolled his eyes but went and brought them each a cold beer without further protest.

"So where did you find this place?" House stuffed some beef and a fork full of kimchi into his mouth. Together with the beer, this was as close to a perfect dinner as it got without having to leave his comfortable place on the couch.

"I get around."

House snorted through a mouthful of delicious food. "When you don't use the bus you rely on your satnav to get to work most days!"

"Only because it shows me traffic updates."

They continued like this, drinking a couple more beers while not really watching but still commenting on the DIY show on TV. The food disappeared slowly, not least because Wilson decided he still had some room for stir-fried vegetables after all. House watched him eat – not picking at his food for once. Date or no date, wherever Wilson had been earlier, it had done him good, House thought and leaned back. Deep inside, a small knot of anxiety he'd been carrying around for a long time finally loosened a bit.

Eventually, Wilson went to bed while House spent some time trawling the internet for another perfect case for his main project. Just after midnight, he hit paydirt. A few messages on the site's forum and one short but informative private message later, and he declared this day a moderately successful one.

* * *

After a night of alternately going through the files he had been sent and sleeping fitfully, House woke to the sweet smell of breakfast the next morning. There was barely anything in the fridge, so either Wilson had gone out early to do some shopping – unlikely but not impossible – or he'd decided to make do with the meagre contents of their kitchen cabinets.

"The prodigal son returns to the kitchen," House muttered and carefully sat down at the kitchen counter. He didn't like this newfangled invention, it made you watch while someone else was cooking – he was interested in the finished product, not the process.

A mug filled with steaming coffee appeared in front of him. House grabbed it without looking up. He could do without Wilson's scrutiny today. His leg was killing him, and he needed something to line his stomach pronto.

"You act as if I haven't cooked in months," Wilson replied and turned back to the stove. "Get us two plates, this will be done in a minute."

House had no choice but to heave himself off the stool and fetch plates as directed. It was either that or get the look.

"You haven't made anything like this in a long time, though, admit it," he mumbled when Wilson slid a plate with a stack of French toast and a bottle of maple syrup towards him.

"There's been no need," said Wilson and pulled a stool to the other side of the counter so that he sat facing House. "We usually have more than half a loaf of stale bread and one egg."

"No bacon?"

"Don't push it. We're going shopping after this." He looked at House for a moment. "Or as soon as you've cleaned up. You look like shit."

He felt like it too, but that wasn't anything new.

"I'm not going grocery shopping with you – are you crazy? It's Saturday, every place will be filled with frustrated families; toddlers having tantrums, husbands wandering the aisles desperately looking for a way to escape this hell. Is this what you want? Zombieville?"

Wilson shrugged. "What I want are a fully stocked fridge and cabinets. We can order online if you prefer – but you're not getting out of paying for your share."

There were topics worth arguing with Wilson about and there were moments when that was a waste of time. This clearly belonged in the latter category.

Even online shopping with him would take several hours. Wilson being Wilson, he would want to make sure the milk was organic, the beef grass-fed and everything else, down to the butt wipes, ecologically sound.

"Okay, sure. California law probably forbids work in hospitals on a weekend anyway."

"What are you on about, House? Have you got a case?"

"Might have."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Fine. I get it. I won't tell you where I was last night, so now you've got this big secret. Suit yourself."

He got up to load the dishwasher. Without turning around, he said, "Hope you get that case, but you're not getting out of shopping."

House grinned into this coffee. Of course, he wouldn't.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

It was Tuesday, and it had been almost four days since his jump. James couldn't stop thinking about it. It was as if something inside of him had shifted.

The adrenalin rush, the sensation of falling and yet knowing that he wasn't in any real danger, the view from up there and the wind tearing at his clothes – it simply wouldn't let go. So far he had resisted contacting Webber to see if they could book another jump sometime soon. But he wondered if this was how people got addicted to something; a substance, an experience.

He had done nothing worthwhile over the weekend unless you counted three loads of laundry. He'd also forced House to help with the grocery shopping which they had done online and had delivered.

House had worked most of Saturday and Sunday, or so he presumed. He had sequestered himself in his room except for the occasional foray to raid the fridge. It had fallen to James to ensure there were fresh coffee and snacks available whenever House emerged from his seclusion.

James himself had spent most of the weekend reliving those precious fifteen minutes.

He had spent Monday doing the same in between patients.

Now he sat at his desk, another referral form for a new patient in front of him. But he just kept staring at his pen. This wouldn't take more than ten minutes of his time, and then he should get to the next patient waiting outside.

It wasn't even a difficult case. In fact, it had been eerily familiar, almost like looking into a mirror showing an image that was only slightly distorted.

Male, early forties, slight shortness of breath, combined with pressure in the chest. Like himself almost three years ago, the patient had thought he was having a heart attack and had gone to the ER right away. Like himself, he had been told that his heart was fine and there was nothing to worry about. It was probably just stress.

Unlike himself, the patient had gone online to seek help. On some obscure medical discussion board, he had been recommended to find a new physician, 'someone with a proper degree, not some shoddy photocopy they found at a car boot sale.'

Unlike the patient, he hadn't needed to go online because he knew what the problem was. All he had required was another oncologist's opinion to confirm his self-diagnosis.

And all this patient needed was for James to fill in the form that would send him to _Virginia Mason_ in due course – and probably straight to Webber.

It was glaringly obvious that this was House's work. Maybe it wasn't even the first case which had been sent his way. Which didn't mean that he could desert this patient.

He picked up the phone and dialed Webber's office number, only to be told that Dr. Webber wasn't available at the moment. But the friendly voice at the other end would make sure Dr. Webber would contact Dr. Wilson as soon as he got out of surgery.

Which happened sooner than expected. James had just finished filling out the referral form when his cell vibrated with a text.

 _Heard you called. In surgery until noon at least. Can't really get away for long - lunch cafeteria, 2pm?_

And so they ended up in the hospital cafeteria – not a place James had imagined he would have to see again anytime soon.

The place was busy, and he had just managed to get a table when Webber arrived, still in scrubs. He watched him stop at the counter and accept two plates from the woman working the sandwich bar.

"Sorry I'm late, busy day," Webber slumped down in a chair and pushed a plate with a huge chicken salad sandwich across. "Eat. It's good. Special request."

The food had clearly been ready and waiting, so he must have phoned in his order. James wondered what Webber had done to deserve personal service in an otherwise standard hospital cafeteria.

The sandwich was excellent, there was no denying that.

"So, you got the bug?"

"Huh?"

"The freefall bug, the jump bug, the adrenalin bug?" Webber grinned.

"Ah. No." James shook his head. "Well, I'm not sure."

"Right. I thought that's why you were here." Webber ignored the blatant lie and chose to make small talk. "Had a good weekend?"

As if he didn't know James had spent it reliving the jump.

"Nothing special, just some housework."

"Greg around?"

"Yeah, but he's been working, I think."

"He's got a case?" Webber perked up visibly. "Great! You can stop feeling guilty then."

"What do you mean?"

Webber raised a brow. "It's pretty obvious you've felt responsible for him not being able to do what he does best."

James sat there for a moment, unable to respond.

Had Webber spoken to House? Had House complained? Had he been nagging too much?

His confusion must have shown because Webber stopped eating and turned serious.

"You told me he gave up everything for you when you got your diagnosis. Someone like you would feel guilty receiving a gift of that magnitude."

"Someone like me?" James's mouth was dry, the sandwich suddenly tasted like sawdust, and he wished he had bought something to drink on his way in.

"Someone who cares. Someone who feels responsible."

"Huh." Maybe Webber was right. Maybe he had been putting pressure on House to find a case and get a job because he felt guilty. He knew how much House hated boredom, and seeing him sitting around at the hospital and then later at home day after day had been a constant reminder that all this was because of him. He _was_ responsible. "Maybe you're right."

"I'm pretty sure I'm right." Webber leaned back. "But if you didn't call me to arrange another jump, why are you here?"

James pulled out the form. "I actually just called to discuss a case with you, but since we're here now I can give you the referral myself."

Webber stuffed the last piece of sandwich into his mouth, wiped his hands and then skimmed through the form.

"You're thinking thymoma? Bit of a déjà vu for you, I guess." When James nodded, he continued, "but this is what I meant. You care. Anyone else would've just put this into the out tray and forgotten all about it."

James shrugged.

"Yes, they would," Webber insisted. "Which is why I have a proposal for you."

Webber spent the next ten minutes outlining what he had in mind while James sat and listened without interrupting him.

"You didn't just come up with this five minutes ago, right?" he finally asked when Webber was finished.

"No. You were the first on my mind when I knew Cassel was leaving."

James shook his head. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," Webber said cheerfully.

"No."

"No?"

"I can't."

"James." Webber put his empty plate on a neighbouring table and then leaned across to look at him. "Don't be stupid. You know you want this. You know you _need_ this. You've been depressed for long enough. And I need someone I can rely on. Someone I can work with. Someone who knows what he's doing, someone with a brain. Someone I can trust."

"I'm not depressed."

"Is that all you have to say? You are, and deep down you know it. You wouldn't be hiding in that practice if you weren't. You'd be doing what you're good at and what you enjoy."

"I don't enjoy oncology. Not anymore. I hate cancer." Even to his own ears, he sounded like a petulant child.

"Don't we all." Webber shrugged. "But cancer doesn't give a rat's ass how we feel. It's not going away. You and me, we can help. We can do _something_. There aren't many people who can."

He couldn't.

"I can't." He wasn't sure how to say what he felt. "I'm… I'm not good at this anymore. I was, once. I feel like I've lost something."

Webber seemed to consider this. "Hm. You have, I guess. You've lost that tumor-riddled gland we took out of your chest. Maybe you've also lost your innocence. But have you considered what you've gained?"

When James didn't reply, he continued. "You've gained experience. Pain. Depression. Maybe compassion. I'm not saying you should return to how things were before because you can't. But don't throw this away."

Webber got up. "I'll get us some coffee. I definitely need one now. Don't leave."

James watched him go.

Why he hadn't anticipated this was beyond him. It should've clicked the moment Webber mentioned his partner was leaving.

And yet, it hadn't. He had been entirely unprepared. Which proved one thing, at least. Webber was right about the depression.

He had been on an anti-depressant during his cancer treatment. The suggestion had been Webber's who had been willing to go down a slightly unconventional route to find something that would ease the neuropathy, especially in his hands. James was sure Webber had also diagnosed his depression correctly at the time. Two birds, one stone. But he'd gone off the anti-depressant as soon as his treatment had ended. He had wanted to get back to normal, he had told himself. Only that hadn't worked, no matter how hard he had tried.

"You're right," he said when Webber came back with two coffees. It was good coffee, by cafeteria standards.

"About…"

"About the depression," James finally admitted. "Things are… different."

"And they should be. That's what I've been saying. You can't pretend nothing's changed. If I was brutally honest, I'd say put your money where your mouth is – was - and do what you used to tell your patients after they'd finished their treatment."

" _Go and live your life, find something you enjoy._ Sounds a bit hollow now."

"Because you need to fill it with meaning." Webber laughed. "And yes, I know I sound like a self-help book of the worst kind."

"You do."

He knew he ought to give Webber a straight answer. He deserved that much. Playing for time, James turned the coffee cup in his hands. Not surprisingly, his fingertips tingled.

"See this?" he finally said and held up his hands. "That cup is too hot to handle today, and it's not even a paper cup. Colder weather's on the way, I'd say."

Webber nodded, waiting for him to continue.

James sighed.

"I can't even do surgery anymore!"

"Who said you're supposed to do surgery? Let me worry about that. Surgery isn't your strongest suit anyway."

"Well, thank you very much," he snorted.

"Seriously, it isn't." Webber insisted. "You're good, or so I've heard. But you're great at other things. Forget surgery. We have enough surgeons. Great surgeons, like the one who operated on you. No, what I need is what you have."

"Which is….?"

"I need to go now, James. I have work to do, and I'm down a deputy department head. So for pity's sake, don't make me beg. I'm not doing this to do you a favor. I need your knowledge, your expertise. And yes, your own cancer history. Use it. Don't ignore this. And don't throw your life away."

And with that, Webber got up and left – leaving James to figure things out by himself.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 _Almost there, just one more little push. Your move._

House couldn't help but grin when he read the text.

Returning to his other project, he put his phone on silent. He had been working on the case he'd been sent Friday. It was now definitely that - a case. All he needed was to get the people in California to agree on payment terms. And they were being very stubborn, even though the patient's family wasn't exactly destitute, by all accounts.

If this consulting work took off, he would need someone to take care of all the administration, though. Haggling about rates and contracts was a waste of his time. He would have to get someone with good negotiation skills – his own 'take it or leave it' approach was unlikely to work everywhere, no matter how good his reputation still was.

It had surprised him a little to receive that email in the first place. The news of his resurrection had apparently spread quickly. On hearing the basics of the case, he had asked for more info and had been sent some files, including a scan and past medical history, as far as that was possible in this case. Most of it wasn't very useful. He would have to order a whole new set of tests once he was officially consulting on the case. And even then, it would probably still be a struggle. Because for now, this wasn't a case at all for the Californians – aside from one doctor who apparently had a little more sense than the rest of the staff. At least enough sense to find him.

He had just sat down with his guitar, trying to choose a piece to play, when he heard Wilson's steps outside the door.

For a while now, they had been playing this game neither of them ever mentioned but both enjoyed. It had started innocently enough during the first week Wilson had gone back to work. House had been playing for a while when he'd heard the elevator arrive and Wilson approach the door. But then he hadn't entered. He figured Wilson had stopped outside the door and listened to the music.

House didn't play for an audience, and Wilson had never shown much interest in listening. But this had changed when he had been recovering from his surgery and treatment. Apparently, he had grown to enjoy music without ever saying so.

Ever since that first day, House had made sure he had a different piece ready for when Wilson returned home. There were days when he just picked a random classic. Other days, he improvised. And every single time, Wilson stopped to listen.

Today, House's fingers automatically went to play an intro he had been practicing earlier that morning. Matt Davies' new album had come in the mail a few days ago, and more than one track had grabbed his attention. Most of the guitar arrangements were too advanced for him, but he'd had fun trying.

 _There's an ordinary madness beating in my chest,_

 _Static in the wires and birds in the nest…_

"You're home early." House put the guitar aside when Wilson came in.

"Yeah, I'm not feeling great."

House turned.

Wilson looked fine. He looked the same as when he had left this morning which, strictly speaking, didn't qualify as fine. For Wilson to look fine he would have to put on a few pounds and get his spunk back.

He watched Wilson disappear into the kitchen, where he rummaged around in the cupboards. A few minutes later he returned with two glasses and a bottle of wine, cork already removed.

Wilson turned the TV on, poured both for himself and House and then settled in to watch something that looked like a program on French architecture.

"I need to pick your brains," House ventured after he had observed Wilson for a while over the top of a file and hadn't been able to detect the faintest bit of interest in what he was watching.

"Okay."

House tossed a folder across and hit Wilson squarely in the chest.

"HEY!"

"Sorry, thought you were awake."

Wilson shook his head and reluctantly picked the file off the floor.

"What am I looking at?" he asked after flicking through a few pages.

"That's what I'm asking _you_. Doh."

When Wilson didn't seem to bite, he added some info. "Female, late sixties, exact age and other crap is in the blue file over there. Admitted with ataxia, slightly slurred speech and an apparent diagnosis of dementia. Some quack diagnosed that, obviously."

" _Obviously_." Wilson rolled his eyes. "Admitted where?"

"Some private hospital in Northern Cali. Who cares. The taxi driver at the airport will find it."

Wilson turned a few more pages, then took the blue folder House had referred to.

 _Hook_.

"Well." He looked up after a while. "This is intriguing. What is this place? Some psychiatric institution? How did the attending find you? And why?"

"Beats me. Someone with a conscience, maybe. Not fond of locking up old ladies without proper cause."

That got a chuckle out of Wilson. "Well, thank god they found you, her knight in shining armor."

"We're still in negotiations, but this knight will be getting paid handsomely for his services when he's done."

"Well, you better." Wilson picked one scan – the one House had been looking at repeatedly earlier – and held it up against the light. "Were you thinking paraneoplastic syndrome?"

There. Finally.

"Could be."

 _Line_.

Wilson flicked back through the blue folder. "Could also explain the seizure they just barely mention on page three."

House said nothing.

"So what is this? Someone trying to get rid of their rich granny? Lock her up because she's getting contrary? Declare her incompetent and get all her money before she croaks and they need to pay taxes on it? How are you going to get paid if this lady is incompetent and the family has the money? That hospital surely won't be paying, House. You'll be lucky if they pay your ticket to go down there. If you go." He looked at House. "Why _do_ you want to go?"

"Need more info. They only sent me this one scan and some photocopies. I need more. But someone runs a tight ship there. Don't care about the patient either, apparently, as long as she's safely locked up. Except for one do-gooder intern."

"Still. How are you going to get paid for this?"

"If I diagnose her and they treat the cancer we assume she has, she won't be incompetent anymore, and I'm sure she'll be very happy to reward her knight in gold and silver."

Wilson snorted. "You'll have to look the part too when you go, don't forget. Jeans and old trainers aren't going to cut it, I'm afraid."

"I'll wear one of your ties, that'll help."

"I'll let you borrow the green one you gave me last Christmas. It makes me look pale."

House poured both more wine. "That tie was an excellent choice. You look pale because you _are_ pale."

Wilson ignored the quip and kept glancing at the scan. "Could be ovarian, I guess."

"I'll be sure to let them know the leading expert on my team said so."

"Please don't."

Eventually, satisfied with his diagnosis, Wilson put the files back into the folder they came in, all nicely in order, House noted.

They went back to watching the architecture program in silence. It was clear that Wilson's mind wasn't in France at all, though. His collar unbuttoned, tie loosened, he barely glanced at the TV. Instead, he kept turning his cell phone around in one hand while he sipped wine from the glass in the other. By House's count, he had so far had three glasses and was well on his way to being sloshed.

Then, as if about to jump off a cliff, he put the glass down, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then typed a short text message.

A very short message.

Three letters, provided House had counted correctly.

And _sinker_.

House just about managed to hide his grin when Wilson looked over. This was a man who was relieved that he had made a decision.

"What else have you been doing today?" Wilson asked innocently while reaching for the remote. The program had ended and, apparently, he wasn't in the mood to go and make dinner just yet. Maybe they were just getting drunk tonight. House was okay with that.

"Going through job listings online, just in case those crazies in Cali don't work out." House opened his laptop. "Did you know Webber has an opening for a deputy head of department?"

"That position's been filled," Wilson replied without missing a beat.

"Congratulations!" And when Wilson grinned, he added, "welcome back. About time too."

"You're not at all surprised about this, right?" Wilson rolled up his sleeves and finally took off his tie. It landed, uncharacteristically, on the floor. "You probably knew about Cassel leaving before Webber did. Maybe even before Cassel himself. And all those new cancer patients who came to see me… you wouldn't know anything about that, House?"

"Not a clue. More wine?"


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

House had insisted on a non-stop flight – no way was he going to limp around airports any more than absolutely necessary – so there hadn't been much choice. All they'd offered him was a late afternoon budget flight and airport pick-up. Tempted as he had been to start haggling for an upgrade, he knew he couldn't push this one. Besides, he was too curious and the case looked interesting. Probably easier than he liked but beggars couldn't be choosers, and he had to start somewhere. He had been out of the game for too long – a few unofficial consults notwithstanding – and the itch was greater than his need to be comfortable right now. So coach and a late afternoon flight it was.

Which left him plenty of time for lunch.

Coming back here felt strange. The memories of days and weeks at a time here in this building were still fresh. They weren't exactly images he cherished. He had mostly wandered the hallways alone, usually at night, with Wilson being too sick and too tired to do much else but sleep. The nurses on duty had kept watch over his nightly tours and offered tea or just about tolerable coffee for sustenance, occasionally supplemented by a muffin or a bagel.

Walking these corridors now and being entirely unconcerned with what was going on behind closed and half-open doors was a relief.

He wondered how Wilson felt being back daily.

Every now and then he came across a somewhat familiar face. Some even smiled openly at him. Exposed to such niceness, he realized that Wilson had chosen well – then and now. He would fit right in.

He knew he wouldn't have to search long to find the deputy department head's office. It should be right next to Webber's office; not a location he would ever forget.

Turning another corner, he passed two nurses chatting in front of a noticeboard. He just glanced at them but then stopped in his tracks. The women smiled and moved aside so as not to obstruct his view.

House took a step closer. The _'New to the department this month'_ section currently featured only one newcomer.

An 11x14 photo was prominently displayed in the middle of the board, even though the picture would've caught anyone's eye anywhere.

It was unmistakably Wilson and at the same time, it wasn't.

Not even House had ever seen him like this. His dark brown hair, now thinner and streaked with a little gray, was flying in front of a sky tinged with sunset colors. Safety goggles covered his eyes but couldn't obscure the expression of pure joy on his face. His mouth was open in what could at first glance be both; a broad grin or a scream.

House stood for a moment and looked at what should be listed in the dictionary under happiness.

Webber had done well in more than one respect.

He bounced his cane a few times and then headed for Wilson's office.

Time for lunch.


End file.
